Variations in the Spectrum from Quiet to Silence
by hijklmnop
Summary: E/Vince. Silence was totally different. Silence had that kind of intimidating buzz underneath it, like something coiled and ready to strike. Like something bad's impending and your breath's just hitched in enough to wait for it.


How Vince and Eric got to become friends, it's not like there was some big, magical moment that they can talk about later, share with their grandkids or something. They didn't share lunch with each other in school, they didn't bond over art class, and it wasn't like they got together in some play group or something other neighborhood mothers might set up with their kids - which there wasn't really such thing as a 'neighborhood mother', not in Queens, and ideas of play groups were mostly mothers sharing a smoke on the edge of the playground while their kids ate sand together or something, nothing too fancy.

No, instead, Vince and Eric's friendship started with war.

Not quite so melodramatic as that, but for six-year-olds, it was pretty damn intense. Vince doesn't remember exact logistics, it was a long time ago, but he does remember there was this weirdo kid, this Murphy, E. guy that made fun of his boots because they were falling apart and all, even though he told Vince later that his own shirt was straight out of the thrift store, so that was a bit of a pointless statement, he'd just been riled.

Anyway, there were nasty words thrown at each other of the very best first grade caliber; buttnugget and crap shoes (Eric), and boot face (Vince), mostly because Vince was paranoid about using insults too bad, because his mom literally had ears everywhere, he was positive, and if he called anyone too nasty of names, she Would Find Out. And then she would Totally Cuff Him One. It had seemed like a good insult at the time (if his boots were shit, then wouldn't that then make this E. Murphy guy's face equally shit?), but at least it was a point in the arsenal and to this day Eric still called him boot face if they ever threw some insult wars out there.

Long story short, Eric and Vince had ended up rolling around in the mud over some stupid pair of shoes, slapping faces and yelling things that weren't even necessarily English, they were just random noises of pure first grader rage that had Mrs. Cheveley yanking them apart and allowing them no recess later on that day - they had to sit in the desks in the class, glowering at the chalk-ridden blackboard.

"I hate you," Eric had grumped.

"I hate you more," Vince had thrown back, arms folded and his head propped between them.

But then Eric felt a little bad, because he didn't really hate him, he'd just been in a foul mood all morning. And thus he dug around in his pocket before pulling out a crumpled packet of Big League and holding it out towards Vince. "Want some gum?"

"Sure!" Vince changed moods at once, cheerily gnawing at some Ballplayers' Bubble Gum.

And from there on in, the two were inseparable.

It was one of those kind of friendships, you know? Buildings burning, people dying, friends to the end and then some, that kind of thing. Vince and E this and Eric and Vinny that, and it seemed like one or the other wasn't something mutually exclusive anymore - you had to get the whole package if you asked for one. People always cracked jokes about what would happen if they cut the umbilical cord, sawed the ropes off, found the key to the handcuffs or something. Like they couldn't live without each other. Like they couldn't... function without each other. And maybe that was partly true, Vince didn't know and E didn't know but they didn't really feel too much like testing it. But then they were both this kind of fucked up codependent that they'd never really thought about or talked about, it was just kind of there.

Nobody's home life was a particularly happy one here, was all. In Queens. It was like there was some kind of entrance quiz that wouldn't allow the normal people in, only the poor and the degenerate and the subdefective. Stripper moms and autistic kids and crazy Jahovah's Witnesses. Anger management drop-outs, illegal immigrants, the financially disinclined. Drug addicts. Alcoholics. You saw it all in Queens, but there was just a very strict Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy about everything. Everybody knew. Everybody knew. They just all pretended like they didn't know jack shit. It was easier that way. It wasn't a good way to go about things, or even a right way or a comfortable way, it was just the easiest way to function.

Maybe Eric had just been worse at that kind of policy than everyone else. Maybe the guy just kind of felt everything about everyone, found himself caring a little too much and a little too genuinely, even at twelve. E had always been the static one in the group, while Vince was off doing whatever he did wherever he did things and being generally crazy, it was Big Brother Eric or... Wife Eric or whatever kind of Eric he was, he didn't know, that helped clean up the messes. Maybe it was because his family hadn't been so bad; he had a mom and a dad and they fought sometimes and threw shit at each other, go figure, but at least later they'd Go Fish or something lame that his mom could come up with to make up for things.

Or maybe it was just days when his best friend would come into school with his head a little lower than usual, didn't even have to say anything but there was an uneasy kind of way he kept tugging at his sleeves to cover something up from everyone, and Eric didn't like that stupid system anymore, said Fuck the System and gave Vince one of those looks that only a Murphy could give, that said 'you are sleeping over my house tonight', and 'you don't have any say in the matter'. And Vince would smile a little easier and they'd dick around and make popcorn and get drunk and Eric didn't know who the hell had decided on that stupid system, but it was just that. Stupid. And he wasn't going to listen to it.

Those nights were the quieter ones in the nights of epic Vince and Eric sleepovers.

The ones where they'd be sprawled all over each other on the couch and watching Hellraiser and pretending to laugh at all the scariest parts. (But then totally not judging one another when the windows were locked shut and that slept in the same bed later that night - no way in fucking hell was Vince sleeping on the floor.)

The ones where they'd play Bullshit, which was a lot harder than it seemed, even with just two people, considering half of Eric's card deck was... somewhere, missing, leaving him down a two of spades, a seven of diamonds, a jack of hearts, and there were a couple other ones, they were sure - they'd counted, even, one night - but they kept forgetting which ones were gone. And they'd bet brownies and Fritos and fuck-all on their games, even though they weren't even entirely sure what that were betting on.

Or the ones where they'd remember there was a new shiny lady in their lives, her name was Mary Jane, and they intended to get thoroughly acquainted with her - and quite often. It'd be Vinny and E again, boneless and Jell-O across E's bed, staring up and out the window and watching stars for hours and hours. It wasn't much, and it certainly wasn't anything special, but it was enough.

Eric remember those nights pretty vividly, even amongst all the mischief and mayhem a few teenage boys could get up to in the city, even amongst new friends and old friends and some guy who called himself Turtle who had a great affinity for leading them into illegal exercises. Of course he remembers the other shit too, like being ten and feeling badass when they shoplifted candy bars and sodas from the mini-mart on the corner. Or the time Eric's mom walked in on the lot of them with a dimebag in the kitchen and Turtle in all his mastermind had thrown it in his bowl of soup and started bitching about too much oregano. Definitely remembers the aftermath of that, when Turtle ate all of said soup as a more convincing touch. Spent the whole night sitting in the corner with a bag of pretzels, ranting and raving about sparkles on the ceiling and some shellfish that kept climbing out the walls or something.

But then there's the flip side. The night where Vince and Eric are quiet, quiet, quiet, and Eric's not even sure why, maybe it's just cuz he's a quiet kind of guy. Or they didn't have much to talk about. Or maybe Eric's just feeling a little trapped in that corner, not really sure and definitely not wanting to say the wrong thing. Which is stupid because he doesn't even know what that is or what it could be, but what he knows for sure is that what he does next is definitely the wrong thing, because it's not polite to ask your friend if you can see, you know, what happens; the aftermath of it all.

There's a kind of sickening simplicity to how Vince's mouth tugs up into that easy, carefree smile, and he grates out a 'sure' and before E knows it, he's hiking up his shirt, all lounged across Eric's bed. "Pretty good night, huh?" he manages in a laugh, rolls up his sleeves a little and shows off angry red finger marks across his wrists.

That's it, then, isn't it? Right there? He's just too nice for that kind of thing. Not even nice, it's just... not the place where he's exactly functioning best. Eric's always been there but there's only so much you can keep in your Best Friend repertoire. It's silent when Eric slides up on the bed, sits a little straighter and checks out what Vince is showing off - not in the fun way. Silent, which is totally different from quiet. Quiet insinuates calm, that things are good in the world. Quiet is peaceful. Silence was totally different. Silence had that kind of intimidating buzz underneath it, like something coiled and ready to strike. Like something bad's impending and your breath's just hitched in enough to wait for it.

Vince's smile wavers a little as Eric tiptoes fingers up his side, breaks into half a frown, half a grimace. And it's totally fine and not at all gay, it's just concern, and maybe a dash of blind curiosity. "It's okay," Vince shrugs, and tucks his hands behind his head, looking back up at the window again. "I'm gonna make it outta here some day. Be fat and rich and have a million babes hangin' off my arms or something. You can come too."

"Exactly a million?" Eric chides with a laugh.

Vince grins a little more genuine. "Exactly a million."

Silence again, creeping around like a bad penny, always coming back just when someone wants it least.

Eric rubs his thumb at his lip some, and leans against the bed on an elbow. "You okay, Vince?" he asks, and Vince knows he means it, he always means it. Vince leans up on his own elbows and looks at him real hard. Looks Eric straight in the eyes with his shirt still up around his navel and showing off, looks at him and leans forward and smushes his lips hard into Eric's own.

He's not sure if it's shock or if it's acceptance, but his eyes are shut and Eric's lips aren't particularly soft by any means - it is the end of fall, freezing cold to boot, cold air's gonna bring dry lips, go figure. But E doesn't pull away, doesn't say anything more than a tiny noise of surprise. Or complaint. Or disgust. Vince doesn't know yet and he's not exactly explaining himself here or giving Eric a chance to ask him. Because he wants to kiss him, and that's that. And then maybe he's a little afraid to hear just what Eric's going to say about this.

Kisses him firmly, kisses him surely. And, yeah, Eric's not leaning away, but he's not exactly kissing back either.

When he can finally comprehend what's going on, he twists a little, plants a hand on Vince's chest and finally pushes away, eyes a little wide and staring. Silence, more silence, goddamn buzzing silence as Vince slumps a little, elbows still under him, eyes still shut in anticipation of that kiss. Or maybe in memory of it now, he doesn't know. "Well?"

Vince finally opens his eyes. "Well what?"

Eric blinks. "'Well what'?"

"Yeah, well what?"

"Something... makes me think this isn't going anywhere," Eric cuts off that conversation, and sits up, hand still on Vince's chest and a warning sort of look in his eyes. "What the fuck was that?"

"What the fuck was what?"

"Let's not do the circle thing again."

Vince laughs a little, and eyes Eric's fingers, one by one by one splayed across his Ramones t-shirt. "E--"

"Vince."

There's something in his tone that has Vince finally looking up, a little frank. A little scared. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to tell me why the fuck you just kissed me, is what!"

"Why?"

"Why, what do you mean, why?"

"Does there need to be a reason?"

Eric blinks, baffled. "There usually is one, yeah. Unless you're a different Vincent Chase than I grew up with that just makes out with random people whenever he feels like it!" Vince doesn't answer, just looks up at him through those stupid eyelashes and doesn't say a word. "Vince!"

"Come to California with me."

Okay, now they're really taking off, and Eric's not even sure of who he really is anymore, never mind why the fuck he's making out with his best friend. "What?"

"Come to California with me."

"Where the fuck is this coming from?"

"Come to California with me."

"Vince--"

"E, I'm being serious." Vince sits up, then, leans a fist into the bed spread and claps a jovial sort of hand onto Eric's knee. It's joking and totally, entirely, completely earnest at the same time. Like he's leaving a little bit of his soul out to dry right now, right tonight, and he hasn't really told Eric the fact yet out loud - which is stupid, it's fucking stupid, becase it's just a damn hand on his knee, but it feels like more, and Eric just notices right now that he's still got a hand grabbing Vince's dumbass t-shirt. "Come to California with me. We can take off like Johnny, you can really make it out there."

"His last two," and Eric cracked out the finger quotes, "quote unquote 'BIG' roles? Were a drunk frat guy and a corpse."

"Who cares about big name shit?" Vince laughs, and grabs Eric's shoulders. "It's living the dream, man! Sex, drugs and rock and roll, it's where it all starts! Cali's about being somebody, about having everything you want!"

"No!" And pauses. "Well, not like." He doesn't know what he's talking about. "We still didn't even talk about the kiss thing!"

Vince grasps both sides of Eric's face, looks him long and hard in the eyes. "I kissed you because I wanted to. Nothing more than that, this isn't the Crusades or something. No big deal."

"No big deal, Vince, why is it not a big deal?" He screwed his eyes up and fixed Vince with a look... got a shrug in return. And that was the typical Vince response, wasn't it? A dumbass shrug and nothing more. No explanation, no reason, he just did things sometimes, didn't tell anybody why. "Don't just shrug at me, Vince, Jesus Christ! You're not a fag!"

"Whoa, who said anything about being a fag?" Vince laughed, threw his hands up in the air. "Nobody's a fag! I'm not a fag! I just wanted to kiss you. Clear and simple." And Eric looks at him in disbelief.

"You just wanted to kiss me."

"I just wanted to kiss you."

"This is unbelievable."

"Nah, unbelievable would be, I dunno. Turtle renouncing his sins and giving up the strange for the rest of his natural years."

They share a laugh, and it's awkward, but it's a laugh. No silence, no quiet, no nothing but a good, hard look into each other's eyes, Vince still with a bit of a crooked smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. "Your hand's still on my shirt, you know," he adds, a little softly, and grabs at Eric's wrist.

Eric doesn't move. He's pretty sure he's a little frozen. "Yeah. I did notice."

Vince hesitates, and they're apart, but then they're together again, and Vince grabs onto Eric's shoulder and hikes him in a little closer, kisses him needy and bruised and everything else he's feeling right now. Vince kisses like he wants to climb inside someone, at least when he really means it, and maybe Eric's just confused. Maybe he doesn't know what he wants, or who he is, name, phone number, social security and address, he just doesn't know anymore and he's kissing Vince back. Vincent Chase, best friend since they were six years old, and he's fucking kissing him back, sinking his nails into that goddamn oversized t-shirt and hooking him in close.

They're young. It's new. After all, they're only thirteen, they don't know what they're doing, and they've certainly never done anything with another guy before. But it's tongues and teeth and when Vince falls back onto Eric's bed, lips latched and thighs straddled, hands and knees and knuckles, it's not like there's too much of a difference between girls and boys other than the obvious. It's still kissing. It's still intimate. And Vince still comes the same exact way after enough grinding hips together, the simple action of Eric's thigh between his legs getting him off, the feel of a whole lot more smooth lines and hard edges than the ulterior. Girls are too soft. Too supple. You don't have to be as afraid of hurting anyone when you're with another guy.

Eric rocks his hips up and groans into Vince's mouth, comes in his pants like a school kid - which he is still a school kid, so it makes sense. Vince hikes him in close, nails bitten to the quick snagging into the back of his shirt and holding Eric close, close, close, like this is Peter Pan and he's a shadow waiting to be sewn back on. There's that one, long, hard final kiss that Vince doesn't want to really break, doesn't want to give Eric a chance to think. Because Eric overthinks and if he thinks too much about this, Vince knows he'll bolt.

So he kisses up to Eric's ear, nicks some teeth against his lobe and murmurs in his ear one last time. "Come to California with me."

And Eric feels him. Not just the regular old physical way - of course he feels him, he's sitting right the hell on him - but something in Vince's voice, something different that's breaking a little and not really all-together. Something new and all too sincere for Eric to deal with right now.

His voice is cracked and chalky when he responds, squeaky writing on a blackboard. "I can't."

"Yes, you can. You can come with me, we can go out there, we can just go. Fuck school, we'll dance for money on the streets, get a job at some vintage clothing stores and open a surf shop."

"You don't know how to surf."

"Neither do you, but we'll learn." It takes Eric until now to figure out that Vince is still holding on, holding on real tight. "Come to California with me."

And there's a long, long pause, some guilt-ridden pause that knows what's coming and Eric knows he'll feel it tomorrow, feel bad about it, but he says it anyway. He has to say it anyway. This is crazy. This is ridiculous. This is impossible. It's nightmares and dreamscapes and Vince is living too much in a fairy tale world where they can pay with fucking flowers or something. "No." They can't do this. They can't go to California.

Silence. That deadly fucking buzzing silence.

When Vince answers, Eric doesn't like it. Because he knows Vince. He knows Vince's honesty and Vince's faking and all the different kinds of Vinces he's got inbetween. Vince dealing with some kind of stark, white, cracked reality is not a Vince Eric wants to face. Disappointed Vince is not a Vince Eric wants to face. "But." He leans back, head to the mattress. After everything they've been through. "You're like my other half, E, you know that," he explains, a little slowly, almost carefully, half a smile caking up his mouth. But it's the masquerade one, and Eric knows it. "I can't go without you."

Eric's pretty sure Vince can't even function without him anymore, they've been friends so long, it seems. But there are some things you say out loud and some things that everyone knows but you never, ever, ever mention. Vince laughs uneasily and fixes Eric with a look. He's serious about this. "You have to come with me."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you, Vince, I can't just take off, I've got... school, I've got my job--"

"You water Mr. Erick's flower garden on Wednesdays, I think he can mana--"

"I've got my family, Vince."

Vince quiets a minute, and has the decency to look a little confused. "Well, yeah, but. Isn't that what you'd be following to Cali too? Family?" Because the Chases ARE Eric's family. Rita Chase is like his mom, and Johnny's like the retarded older brother that gets into fights and is there to give you lessons on getting out of arrests and getting laid, none of which actually really work, but it's the thought that counts. The Chases are part of his family, and it just makes the fact that he's straddling Vince right now so, so that much weirder.

"I can't, Vince. I can't do it. Not now."

It's okay, right? It's cool? It's always cool with Vincent Chase. Here would come the big old smile, the one you see on the covers of MAD Magazine. The big ol' What, Me Worry? flash of nine hundred teeth and friendly that just oozes into the air, that was the kind of smile Vince had. But it wasn't coming right now. It was Vince staring up at Eric in some kind of childish disbelief, fingers picking at his bottom lip. And had he the nads, he probably might have cried. He was only thirteen, for chrissakes, but Eric knew he wouldn't cry. Not in front of him, not right now. "But." It's like that word is a million letters long and that much harder to get out. "I can't go without you."

Eric hesitates as he sits up, climbs off the bed. Hesitates even more, and procrastinates the answer, even right now with the question staring him right in the face, he's putting it off, he doesn't want to deal with it. "I don't know what to tell you, then, Vince. I guess you're not going."

Vince just rubs at his face, and Eric knows he's trying to get back to normal, trying to pull himself together. He's seen it before. It's Vince. It's always Vince. "I gotta get outta here, man. My house. Queens. New York. It's too small, it's too--" Too what, Eric doesn't know, but Vince is sitting up and still rubbing at his face and there's something that yanks Eric's gut for a spin, twists the knife in cuz he's pretty sure that Vince is gonna do it. He grabs at his shirt, and it's really hot in here, and there's a fucking stain across the front of his pants right now that pretty much wants to announce that he just got off, but he doesn't care, he doesn't... "I gotta get outta here." He stands, and walks, blindly, towards Eric, towards the door. Barefoot, without his jacket, it's gotta be in the forties out there right now.

"Vince, Jesus Christ, you can't just--"

"I have to fucking go, E, I can't--"

"I don't care!"

And Vince's knees buckle out from underneath him before he can even hit the door and it's not even about California anymore. There never was a California. He was a fucking kid, how the hell was he going to get to California? It's that there was an offer of California. It's that he had a dream and it was nice to live in it for a while, but not if even E wasn't going to listen to it, not if even E wasn't going to follow him or even care if he went, even in some kind of fucked up Promiseland.

It's just that Vince never cries, not in front of anyone. Not in front of his mother because she's got enough on her plate, certainly not in front of his father, and not even for Eric. It's rude, it's lame. It's what pussies do, it's what faggots do. Vince isn't a pussy, and Vince isn't a faggot. But it's E and there's a kind of desperation when he hooks onto his shirt again and hugs him real, real close, close enough to breathe in laundry detergent and pot and mac 'n cheese and whatever the fuck else Eric is made of. Snips and snails and puppy dog tails. It doesn't matter. Smells like home, and Vince cries anyway, cries for home or maybe for California or maybe, just maybe, the fact that he might really be a fag, that he doesn't know.

He just doesn't know.

"Vince, whoa. Hey." Eric doesn't like it when people are upset. Eric definitely doesn't like it when people are crying. It's like some switch is flipped out of nowhere. The Help Them Shut the Fuck Up With This Crying Shit switch, if he has one of those. He's pretty sure he has one of those. "Vince." He's never seen Vince cry, not really cry, not since he's all grown up and mature, because, apparently, for Vince, maturity means bottling shit to the point of explosion, but whatever suits your fancy. "Vince, hey."

His vocabulary has been reduced to two words. 'Vince' and 'hey'.

"Don't... Dude, you can't." He doesn't want to tell him to stop crying, because he's pretty sure that would be like telling a junkie to stop trying to quit fucking smoking or something. "Hey, Vince, hey!" He leans back and looks him in the eyes again, a shock of red-rimmed and gawky teenager all wrapped up in this giant pair of big blue eyes that he's noticed before but he's never really paid attention to. That doesn't make any sense. That also makes all the sense in the world. "We'll go to Cali, okay? Someday. We'll go to Cali. I promise."

"You promise?"

"I promise. We just gotta get the money first, man. We need a plan. We'll get out, though. Boy scout honor or something."

"You're not a fuckin' boy scout, you little shit."

"Fine, whatever's like scout's honor that doesn't make you have to skin a squirrel or help old ladies cross the street or some shit."

Vince laughs and it sounds like bells, at least next to the crying thing. And he's snotty and tear-streaked and gross but Eric doesn't care and he kisses him again. Because maybe he doesn't admit to a lot, and maybe Murphys are pretty private people, but he fucking liked that kiss before. He liked that kissing thing. That kissing Vince thing. Did that make him a queer? He didn't really care if he was a queer. Even though he did care, quite a bit, that he'd probably fit pretty neatly into those lockers at school.

"You said you wanted a surf shop, right?"

He's brightening again, pushing up a sleeve of the hoodie under his Ramones shirt and rubbing at his eyes with the other. "Yeah, hell yeah. Hot surfer babes any time."

"We'll have to learn how to surf."

"And how to make surfboards."

"And then how to sell surfboards."

"Fuck that, we'll be too busy surfing once we figure that other part out."

"Long as I don't have to work in fast food or something."

"Sorry, no Mickey D's this time."

"Mick, yeah, that's real funny, actually."

Vince musses a hand in his face, and Eric does it right back, shoves him onto the bed and falls on top of him like they've been doing it for years and not just this last half hour. "Johnny gets his shit together enough or something, he can have his own surf brand or something. The babes'll be all over him."

"Actors get a lot of pussy, you know, we'd get laid no problem off his coattails."

"Horn dog."

"Whatever, you vadge-face."

"Vadge-face?"

"Fine, boot face."

And Vince laughs again, a little louder. A little more honestly and Eric feels better than he has in a while.

"Shut the fuck up."

They're talking for a while, about California, about surfers and babes and tits and acting, movies and song lyrics and a whole lot of big, big blue ocean. And Vince is okay with that. He's okay with just talking, they don't have to up and do things now. It'd be ideal, but it wouldn't be too possible, and he gets that. So they just talk. Talk about anything. Talk and plan. And when Vince finally dozes off, halfway through some mumble about Turtle weighing down the surfboards or something, Eric doesn't even remember laughing, he was too tired, they're sprawled all over each other like the good old days, when they didn't have to worry about shit like homophobics and gays and sex.

It's sleeping pretty peacefully for Vince's first time in a while. And the Murphy house sounds likes a perfect shade of quiet. 


End file.
